


more than what was true

by idaate



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Gen, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Spoilers, pre-game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-12 16:21:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11740710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idaate/pseuds/idaate
Summary: [ MAJOR V3 SPOILERS ]Momota tries to convince himself that he's a good person.





	more than what was true

Momota doesn’t like how quickly he succumbs to the idea. He also doesn’t like how he knows where to go without thinking too hard, and he doesn’t like how he’s done this before so he knows the steps without even thinking.

Rent’s due tomorrow, though, and he doesn’t have enough money. It’s his own fault, of course, because Kaneshida thought that the new movie from a month ago would be a laugh (it wasn’t) and tickets are usually cheapest right before the feature leaves the big screen so Momota figured “hey, why not enjoy myself for a little, I can pay this off”. But he couldn’t, and he didn’t, and all that left in the threadbare wallet hugging him through his sweats is a 1000-yen note and a piece of notebook paper folded over in on itself with the words ‘get more milk’ written on it.

He’s heard others do the same thing, but with inspirational quotes written instead of pathetic reminders. He hasn’t heard any particularly good inspirational quotes lately, but if he catches any, he resolves to remember it as well as he can so it fits in his wallet.

The cafe Momota walks into (and that he’s walked into too many times for his liking) has blue and pink lights beating through the window and practically shake the ground that he stands on. His step doesn’t falter when he flashes an id at the bouncer, not for a second. He looks old enough to match his age, finally, he figures.

He throws himself in a corner booth and inhales the disgusting perfumed scent that’s supposed to hide the fact that they haven’t washed the scratchy pink fabric since they opened this place. Fingers tease at his goatee and he tries to lower his gaze to look threateningly sexy, then think that over again and tilt his chin up so he looks high or drunk or both. Those types of people always look more appealing, more vulnerable, for these kinds of things. Maybe. It’s been a while since he’s done this. He was hoping it would’ve been a while longer.

It takes all of twenty minutes for it to happen, and then he stands up and heads into the back with them, stuffing hands into pockets to try and hide the trembling. He feels nothing even before it starts.

There’s a disgusting feeling of pride that he hates even more than the person who touched him and made his legs feel number than numb when he licks his thumb and counts the number of 1000-yen bills that he’ll be adding to his wallet. Maybe he’ll get a new, not threadbare one. That’s a joke.

( _i’m not a bad person_ he promises himself as he steps into his apartment and onto broken glass, but his shaking grip on the paper money in his hands threatens otherwise)

 

.

 

There’s a boy from Momota’s class standing in front of him, one hand clenched in a tight fist by his side and the other trembling out in front of him, palm facing the sky. Momota looks him up, then he look him down. Hell if he know the kid’s actual name, but he _does_ remember making jokes about it relating to some sort of elderly population at another point in time with his peers. _Obaa-chan,_ or something. It definitely started with an O.

“Hello,” he decides to start the conversation when the kid doesn’t, because someone told him that miscommunication is bad and good communication is very important in a healthy relationship. He’s never found a reason to not listen to the advice, but he hasn’t exactly had a chance to try it out yet either, so now seems like a good enough time.

The kid inhales once, twice, and then says “Please give me back my PSVita.”

Momota blinks. “Uh,”

“Please,” he repeats, and it shakes his whole frame. Momota wonders how many days it’s taken him to work up the courage to talk to him. He wonders if it’s taken all these weeks. “return...my PSVita.”

Momota looks into the back of his mind and, indeed, vaguely remember borrowing someone’s PSVita. Hell if he knew who it belonged to after a couple days full of rooms that smelled like burning plants (not part of the anymore), and no one approached him about it for weeks, so he just kept it.

That is, until he dropped it down the five flights of stairs up to his apartment and it had shattered in a million plus pieces. He picked up them all, all a million and one, all while repeating to himself that he wasn’t a bad person. Didn’t work.

“Uhm, yeaaaaaaaaaah.” Momota scratches the back of his head. “Listen, _Obaa-chan—”_

“It’s Ouma.”

“Okay, Ouma, I might have. Uh.” He shrugs. “Destroyed...your PSVita.” Smacks his lips. “Sorry.”

Ouma’s hand suddenly darts from the position it had held right in front of Momota’s face moments before to _in_ Momota’s face, and the taller boy has to take a step back to avoid the first punch. He doesn’t avoid the second one, though, and he finds himself staggering backwards and clutching at his jaw. “Ow,” he says.

“You’re lying, aren’t you!” Ouma’s voice raises a whole octave. “Y-you’re definitely lying! This is another trick you all decided to play on me, aren’t you? You decided to steal my PSVita just like Kaneshida-kun stole my copy of _Trials of the Dragon_ and smashed it because. B-because ‘Ouma-kun is a super weak and easy target, a-and fun to tease’, right? That’s it, right?!” His chest flutters and he points an accusatory finger at Momota.

Momota vaguely remembers smashing a disc that belonged to a classmate of theirs with Kaneshida, once. He doesn’t remember the name, but he didn’t remember Ouma’s name at first anyway, so the point is kind of proven on that account.

“Okay, no, fuck you,” Momota straightens up and grabs Ouma’s wrist before the smaller boy can do anything, “I’m _not_ like that, thanks very much. I just, just fucking lost it, alright? That’s a human mistake to make, and I’m a human, so seems like those kinds of things align, right? Makes sense? I’m a human, humans make mistakes, so thus _I_ make mist—”

Ouma punches him again with the hand Momota didn’t grab, and now he’s _pissed._

“Alright, cool, see how it fucking is.” Ouma’s eyes widen to saucers and Momota knows the kid regretted the punch even before it collided with his chin. “I get the first time was a spur of the moment thing, and I kinda deserved it that time, but I was just, just explaining myself and you pulled that shit and that was _not_ cool, alright? Like, not cool, capitalized. Jeez, how fucking pathetic must you _get._ I should,” Momota ignores the voice in the back of his head telling him he’s not a terrible person, “I should teach you a lesson. Definitely. Teach you not to mess with,” puffs out his chest, “Momota Kaito, huh?”

“Oh, _fuck_ you!” screams the boy, losing it (is he crying?) as he thrashes wildly in Momota’s grip. The tough front he’s trying to put on is pathetic to watch, especially when Momota’s all too familiar with it himself. “Y-you’re terrible, absolutely, t-terrible, I’ll, I’ll fucking _murder you—”_

The switchblade he keeps in his front pocket is in his hand and on Ouma’s neck before he can spit out another word, and then he’s against a brick wall. Momota’s breathing hard, but Ouma’s breathing harder, and probably from fear more so than anger. At least he’s not struggling to escape anymore.

“Hey, listen, kid—and, hey, look me in the fucking eyes when I’m talking to you. Manners are good, right? Get yourself a pair.”

Slowly, Ouma pulls his gaze up to meet Momota’s own, but only after his gaze flickers at his blade once again.

“Thanks, appreciate that. _Listen,_ pal. I keep this on me,” Momota wiggles the blade on Ouma’s neck, and he swallows, “so that when people _threaten_ me, when they say they want to _kill_ me, I can kill them back. Except, uh, it won’t be _back_ because I’ll have killed them first. You get it? Someone is gonna take you seriously someday, and then you won’t be able to make good on your ‘I’ll fucking murder you’ thing because you’ll be the one with blood around your head. Get it?”

Momota holds him against the wall until Ouma’s hands begin to tremble (and it takes a bit too fast for his liking, and he fucking hates the earth that made them both like this) and then he lets go. “Sorry, maybe putting a knife to your throat was a bit too harsh. Also, threatening you wasn’t cool.” He shrugs and pockets the knife. “Uh, I’ll buy you a new, what was it? That was a vita, right? I can get you a new one.”

(it’ll be hard to pay rent this month but he can scrape by he always does)

Ouma stares at the ground for all of six seconds before bolting away with the typical deer-in-the-headlights look that Momota feels like he’s growing too familiar with.

 

.

 

“I’m not a bad person,” Momota promises himself, but it’s a sort of hard-to-keep promise when he sees someone’s wallet laying out in the open on the counter in the bathroom of a fast food chain restaurant. If he didn’t steal it, someone else would, certainly. He would need it more than that other person, so might as well do it. He’s doing them all a favor, really. Teaching whoever left that wallet out in the open that they should be less trusting, teaching himself, uh...that you’ve got to self-provide. Put yourself at the top of the pack.

Yeah. That’s what he tells himself.

“Hey,” he’s stopped on the way out by a man with hair all awry and collar half-popped, and instantly, even though Momota’s never seen him before, he knows this is the man from the bathroom. “I don’t mean to bother you, but, er,” he licks his lips, “I’m in a bit of a bind. Someone stole my wallet, and, and—I’ve got a flight to catch in a couple hours. I’m desperate, here, I’m just visiting my niece and I’m not from around here and,” he inhales and Momota stares.

( _i’m not a bad person_ is what he promises himself again)

“No, sorry.” Momota shakes his head. “I’m just on my way out, but...I hope you all the best, alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, thanks,” the man is already walking away, smoothing back his hair and eyes frantically glancing from side to side. Momota has to keep his steps controlled in order to make it to the door without running because _surely_ the man must see through him like tissue paper, but he doesn’t.

Momota runs his fingers along the fat, juicy wallet that he knows must be _dripping_ with cash and comforts himself with the fact that his legs won’t be numb for a long while.

 

.

 

Kaneshida hands Momota a cigarette on the rooftop. He pretends to take a drag and passes it back. Kaneshida trades him a flyer and this time, Momota takes pause.

“What’s this?”

“Oh, someone pinned it up downstairs but the principal got pissed and ripped it down. Managed to pick it up from the janitor before _he_ tossed it, though.” Kaneshiro takes in a long drag of the cigarette before coughing on it. “Fuck.”

Momota doesn’t look at the flyer. “Why?”

“Why?” Kaneshida laughs. “Dude, it’s an advertisement to sign up for your own death. They don’t encourage that shit. If too many people from a school sign up, it shows just how suicidal the students are. Bad on the record.” He taps his head with the hand holding the cigarette. “‘Course, that just kinda makes you wanna do it more, right? That sort of ‘rebel’ feel, or whatever.” He wiggles his fingers. “Plus, you were just complaining the other night about how you’re short on cash. I’m just helping a pal out.”

“A friend wouldn’t recommend another friend to fucking die live on television,” Momota says. Kaneshida shrugs.

“You won’t die for _sure._ You could _not_ die.”

He looks over the flyer and licks his lips.

He does this, and he’s set. His legs won’t feel numb anymore. He won’t have to rob another person ever again. The only death threats that he’ll have to fight against are ones from anons on the internet, and God knows they can’t pose any real threat to him.

The flyer gets stuffed into his coat pocket. “I’ll think about it,” he says.

Killing someone definitely won’t let him lie by saying he’s a good person anymore, but he doesn’t think he’ll have to worry about that.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave comments and kudos if you enjoyed!


End file.
